Once Upon a Wallflower (8 page)

Nan sank down on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide in a comical expression of shock. “You plan to investigate the murders? But you are a lady!”

Mira smiled wryly. “As I have said, at the moment I am only a ‘miss.’ And I am a miss engaged to a reputed murderer. Under the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven for behaving in an unconventional manner.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Nan sat quietly for a moment, her gaze unfocused. Finally, she drew herself up. “I am here to do the same.”

At Mira’s puzzled look, she clarified, “To investigate the murders. I took this position, over my mother’s rather loud objections, so that I could learn more about the murders.”

She cast a look at Mira that mingled pity, apology, and resolve. “I have reason to believe that Lord Ashfield is as guilty as the devil himself, but no one with any power has the courage to bring him to justice. I thought that, maybe, if I could gather some sort of proof of Lord Ashfield’s guilt, I could force the constable’s hand. It was one thing for the constable to stand idle when there was only suspicion. After all, he is only paid at all through Lord Blackwell’s generosity. But with proof he would have to act, even against Lord Blackwell’s son.”

“But why should you go to such trouble?” Mira asked.

“Because the…the blackguard’s first victim was my older sister, Bridget.” Nan’s voice cracked slightly, and Mira saw the gleam of tears gathering in her eyes.

Mira went weak. “Nan. I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

Nan shook herself and cleared her throat. “Of course you didn’t,” she continued briskly. “How could you?”

Sensing that sympathy would only make Nan lose her composure, Mira tried to adopt a similarly unsentimental tone. “Well, as we seem to share a common goal, I suggest we pool our resources. I confess I only know about Olivia Linworth’s fall. As for the earlier murders, I know only that they took place, but I don’t know anything about them. Would you mind telling me what you know? Only if it is not too painful for you to talk about, of course.”

“No need to worry, I’ll be fine. It has been three years now, and I would rather catch Bridget’s killer than continue to nurse my own grief. Bridget…” Nan paused, swallowed hard as though she were swallowing her pain, and cleared her throat to start again. “…was twenty-two when she died, the same age as I am now, and as sweet as the day is long. Ellie Thomas, the vicar’s daughter, was out picking berries or some such thing, and she found dear Bridget in the middle of the circle of standing stones, near Dowerdu.”

Mira interrupted. “Dowerdu?”

“Yes. Dowerdu is the ‘black water,’ the sacred well that gave Blackwell its name. When the old religion was practiced, people who had, um, unsavory requests of the gods would make their offerings at Dowerdu. Of course, at present the well does nothing more than provide water for a small crofter’s cottage, and the cottage itself has come to be called Dowerdu. Now Lord Blackwell and young Mr. Ellerby use it as a hunting lodge. And, plenty of folks have seen Lord Ashfield lurking about there, too. Even though he doesn’t hunt.” Nan paused to let the import of her words sink in. “Right near the well and the cottage there is an ancient stone circle. That is where poor Bridget was found.”

Nan’s voice broke again as she continued, her voice a taut thread of pain. “She had been stabbed. It was a brutal death. Her arms and legs were covered with scratches and bruises, and her ankle was swollen a bit. Those that saw her poor body before she was cleaned said it looked as though she had been running through the woods and had wrenched her ankle. It might have been what slowed her down so her killer caught her.

“At the time, everyone believed she had been killed by a traveling peddler or tinker, but then, almost exactly a year later, a group of fishermen found Tegen Quick on the shore below the cliffs just south of Blackwell…below the path that runs between Blackwell Hall and the coves where the fishermen put in. She, too, had been stabbed. John Andrews said she had wounds on her hands and her face, even. Much of her blood had been washed away by the tide, but still every one of those old salts who found her shook and wept as they told the story. Two young women killed at Midsummer in the same manner…people began to suspect something more sinister was afoot.

“And then, a year after that, Miss Linworth died.”

Mira sat for a moment, digesting what she had learned. “So the first two girls were stabbed. But Olivia Linworth fell—or was pushed—off a wall. She wasn’t stabbed at all?”

“If she was, I never heard of it. And this is a small town. News tends to travel.”

“So if Olivia was killed in a different manner, why do people assume she was killed by the same person?”

Nan raised an eyebrow as though Mira’s question was ridiculous. “Every summer, right near Midsummer’s Eve in fact, for three years in a row, a young girl is killed within spitting distance of Blackwell Hall. They must be related. How could they not be?”

Mira nodded. “Yes, I see your point. But why suspect Nicholas?”

Without a blink of hesitation, Nan replied, “Because he’s right queer. Been odd all his life, near as I can tell.”

Mira sat stunned for a moment. “That’s all? Because he’s odd? The whole countryside suspects the man of three murders simply because he is odd?”

Nan’s chin rose a notch. “Not just odd, but peculiar, secretive. He creeps about on the moors at night, and Tom Henry, the smithy, said he once came out to Blackwell to repair some of the doors in the old keep, and he saw Lord Ashfield walking along the top of the wall in his shirtsleeves…with red smears of blood all over the white linen.” She shivered. “Even a streak of the stuff across his cheek.”

Nan’s voice dropped to a whisper, and she glanced about nervously, as though someone might be lurking nearby to hear. “My mother says that he communes with the devil himself. That limp of his? My mother said that when he sealed his pact with the devil, the devil put his mark on him…changed his leg from that of a man to that of a goat.”

“A goat?”

“Yes, a goat.”

Mira tried to be polite, but she could not help herself. She collapsed back onto the bed with laughter.

“A goat? Why that is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. You cannot honestly believe that.”

Nan had the good grace to blush. “Well, no, that bit is difficult to believe. But still, the rumors are what they are, and most rumors have a grain of truth in them. Besides, there is more.”

Mira sobered a bit. “What more?”

“Just before she died, Bridget started talking about love, mooning over some mysterious man. On Midsummer’s Eve, when the rest of us were peeling apples to divine our true loves’ names, Bridget just smiled this wistful faraway smile and said she already knew what fate held for her. And whoever she was stepping out with, he gave her some money. Just a few coins, enough for a bit of hair ribbon and some sweets, but Bridget hinted that that was just the beginning, that she was going to have fine things someday.

“And the vicar’s wife confided in me that Tegen Quick was wearing a silk chemise when she died. Now where would a fisherman’s daughter, one of seven children, get a silk chemise if not from a wealthy lover?”

Mira had no answer. With confidence, Nan concluded, “Bridget and Tegen were both involved with a wealthy man, one whom they must have known and trusted, but one who killed them. And Miss Linworth was also involved with a wealthy man. It is the one thing all three girls had in common. We do not know for certain the name of the man who was paying court on Bridget and Tegen, but we all know who Miss Linworth was involved with: Lord Ashfield.”

Chapter Eight

“Miss Mira, please, I beg you, do not go to that man’s room alone.” Nan stood at the foot of Mira’s bed, clutching one of the posters as though her life depended upon it. Her face was ashen, her mood a match for the rain that poured down beyond the chamber windows.

The note from Nicholas, inviting her to see his artwork in his tower quarters, lay open on the dressing table.

“Nan, I assure you that I will be perfectly safe,” Mira soothed as she tied her curls back with a length of apple green ribbon. “Nicholas may not even be guilty of anything at all. But,” she held up a placating hand at Nan’s mutinous expression, “but even assuming he is the most heinous villain, he is not a fool. He would not harm me in his own room where his crime would be sure to be discovered. In fact, I would say that Nicholas’s room is about the safest place I could possibly be.”

Her mouth drawing out into a flat line of disbelief, Nan shook her head. “Miss Mira, I am not certain you are right about that at all. And what about your reputation? Sure as anything, your reputation isn’t safe in that man’s room.”

“I hardly think this is a time to worry over my reputation, Nan,” Mira responded, a bit put out that her fellow adventuress should raise such a mundane issue at such a critical moment in their endeavor.

“My mother says that a girl should always be worried about her reputation. I should think that would be even more true for ladies.”

Mira sighed, adjusting her skirts as she rose from the wing chair by the fire. “Very well then, but I truly do not think my reputation is in any more danger than my person. If Nicholas is innocent, then I shall be marrying him in a few short days and a small lapse in decorum will not matter a whit. If, on the other hand, Nicholas is guilty, then I will be forced to call off the engagement, and that alone will destroy my reputation. This particular transgression, going unchaperoned to Nicholas’s room, will be but a drop in the proverbial bucket.” She couldn’t help the satisfied smile that crept across her face. She did so love it when her logic fell neatly into place.

Nan stood tall and squared her shoulders. “If you insist on going on this fool’s errand, Miss Mira, then at least take me with you.”

Mira walked over to stand in front of Nan, and placed her hands on the smaller woman’s arms. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?”

“For offering to accompany me even though you are obviously terrified,” Mira said, giving Nan’s arms a gentle squeeze. “But, as much as I appreciate the offer, it really is not necessary. I will be perfectly safe. Besides, I believe Nicholas will speak more freely if we are alone. He does not seem to care for crowds.”

“Three is hardly a crowd, Miss Mira, but if you are certain you should go alone, I promise you I will sit right here and fret until you come back, so do not be gone too long.” Nan met Mira’s eyes with a look of frightened sincerity. “Promise me you will be careful.”

“I promise,” Mira replied, punctuating the pledge with a brief kiss on Nan’s cheek. “But now, I must go.”

Mira took up her new luscious dark green Kashmir shawl, and, with one last reassuring smile for Nan, made her way toward the curtain wall that led to Nicholas’s tower.

Squinting her eyes against the spray of rainwater, Mira held the door open just a crack and peered out into the relentless downpour. The rain fell in shimmering sheets, like silver satin undulating gently in the wind, but the force with which it struck the stone of the curtain wall, and the banshee howl of the wind as it forced its way between the battlements, left no doubt of the storm’s ferocity.

She clutched her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. She would not venture into that deluge. This was the walkway from which Olivia Linworth had fallen to her death. Common sense dictated that Mira not traipse across that same stretch of stone, wet now with rain rather than mist and with the added danger of the brutal wind, tempting the same horrible fate.

“Miss Fitzhenry?”

Mira yelped in surprise and spun around, only to come face to face with a smiling young man with a mop of tawny curls and the most outrageous dimples she had ever seen.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Fitzhenry, but are you by chance trying to figure a way out to the tower that is not quite so, um, damp?”

Mira was slightly taken aback that the young man knew her name, but she supposed everyone at Blackwell must know the identity of the guests and, with her flamboyant hair, she was rarely mistaken for anyone else.

“Uh, yes, actually I was, Mister…”

“Pawly. Pawly Hart. Lord Ashfield’s own valet.” The young man raised his chin a notch in obvious pride over his elevated title, and then stepped back to sketch a courtly bow. Mira noticed that he held a small glass vessel, sealed with a dollop of muddy-colored wax.

“A pleasure to meet you, Pawly,” she said, with all the cool aplomb she could muster.

Pawly’s impish smile widened. “Miss Fitzhenry, I assure you the pleasure is all mine. Now,” he added, with an elaborate flourish of his arm, “if you will allow me to direct you down these stairs here, I believe you will find that there is a passageway
through
the curtain wall which will lead you to the tower. Once on the other side, you will have to climb up a flight of stairs to reach Lord Ashfield’s quarters, but you should find the stairwell with no difficulty. I will warn you, the inside passage is a bit cramped and musty. That is why most folk prefer to walk on the allure. But, in weather like this, I am sure you will find the going more comfortable.”

He gallantly ushered her around a corner to a narrow flight of stone stairs. Tucked in a sheltered recess in a dark corner, she never would have noticed the stairs herself.

As she began to descend into the murky shadows, she quickly realized that Pawly was not following her. She stopped and looked back inquiringly. “I’m sorry, Pawly, were you on your way to the tower yourself?” She glanced pointedly at the jar in Pawly’s hand. “I would not wish to interfere with your duties.”

He bobbed his head and his curls fell forward to obscure his face, but she would swear that his smile had become a grin. “No, miss, I assure you I have no more business over in the tower.” With that, he was gone.

Mira made her way down the narrow, uneven stairs, through the even-narrower passageway, holding her breath against the smell of mold and mice, and then up the stairway at the other end. She found herself in front of a single massive iron-banded door. The door to Nicholas’s quarters.